


best friends and all my enemies

by louciferish



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Fangirls, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Post-Canon, Puberty, Yuri Plisetsky Week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 09:13:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14132913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/louciferish/pseuds/louciferish
Summary: It all starts with a tiger sweatshirt."Puberty is Hard", a short essay by Yuri Plisetsky.





	best friends and all my enemies

**Author's Note:**

> All the credit in the world to [Kiitsuo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kiitsuo) and the other users in the LLYBB Discord, who come up with the best ideas and made me turn one into this.
> 
> Even if it's about 2k longer than I intended.

It starts with a tiger sweatshirt. 

Yuri can’t get off the plane after Worlds fast enough. He disembarks and rushes through the concourse, pushing through a throng of fans waiting outside security to give the entire Russian team a warm welcome. His bronze medal hangs heavy from his neck, making him irritable and self-conscious. All he wants to get out of here and end this miserable season.

As he passes through the fans, a petite brunette in the signature Yuri’s Angels cat ears shoves a brightly wrapped package at him, and Yuri just clutches it to his chest and keeps walking. He zips out of the airport and barges past a whole line of customers waiting at the taxi stand to drop into the back seat of the first cab he sees. 

“Hey-,” the taxi driver starts to protest, but Yuri just shoves a crumpled bill at him and gives him Lilia’s address. A smart cabbie knows when to shut his mouth and start driving.

It’s only after the cab starts to pull away from the curb that Yuri gets a chance to look down at the object on his lap. It’s soft and hastily wrapped in crinkled pink paper decorated with fluffy white kittens. Their eyes are enormous and verging on terrifying. The wrapper clearly overcompensated for poor skills with way too much packing tape, leaving the edges of the gift stiff and plasticy. 

He swore he wasn’t going to accept gifts from fans anymore after a batch of cookies last season made one of the junior skaters ill, but he wasn’t thinking when he grabbed this. Well, at least it doesn’t feel like a bomb. Worst case scenario is he just throws it out the window or leaves it in the back of the cab as a tip.

He shreds the paper and lifts out the gift.

It’s a sweatshirt, soft to the touch and olive green in color. There are bright tropical flowers embroidered near the bottom hem and a snarling tiger curls around the collar, staring up at him. It’s incredible.

It’s also bizarre. He saw this exact shirt a few days ago in London, hanging in a booth in Camden Market. Mila had pulled him away before he got a chance to look at it up close. He’d tried to circle back for it later, but hadn’t been able to find the booth again.

So how did it turn up in the hands of some fan in Saint Petersburg? 

It’s a bit creepy, but the sweatshirt is even cooler up close than he originally thought it would be. He traces his fingers over the silky threads that make up the tiger’s sharp white teeth. It’s a good gift.

He’s wearing it the next day when he goes to a magazine interview. Maybe the girl who picked it out will see the photos.

-

Yuri’s butt meets the ground hard again, and he slams his fists into the ice.

“That’s it,” Yakov yells from across the rink. “You’re done for the day. Get off the ice!”

“What?” He slides back onto his feet. There’s a bone deep soreness in his hips and thighs, but nothing is seriously hurt except his pride. “No! I need to keep trying. I have this!”

“You heard me the first time,” Yakov says. His face is red as he jabs his finger at the rink exit. “Get out of there and cool off or I’ll have you skating compulsory figures for the next week!”

Yuri glares at him as he glides across the rink, snapping his skate guards back on and storming out to the locker rooms. He drops onto a bench and start furiously unlacing his skates. He’d hoped maybe he was done growing by now, but no. He’s shot up another couple centimeters and didn’t even notice until Worlds, when he found himself standing eye to eye with the other Yuuri. He’d barely settled into his last growth, and now all his jumps are betraying him yet again. 

“Puberty is so cruel,” a voice says mournfully from behind him. He looks back to see Georgi draped across the doorway, his skates dangling from his hand by the laces. “I remember it too. It was so painful at the time, but in the end I was glad of it.” 

“‘Painful’,” Yuri snorts, then jerks off his skate. The laces, still pulled tight near the toe, press at the bruises on his feet as he tugs it free. He bends over to rip off the other one. “What do you know? You barely got bronze even back then. You didn’t have anything to lose.”

“I know what it feels like when your body betrays you,” Georgi says, placing a hand on his shoulder. Yuri shrugs him off. “And when you seem to lose skills you once thought you could depend on.”

“Don’t cry to me about your arthritis, old man.” He tosses the skates in his duffel bag and zips it up. “If you hurt so much, maybe you should take the hint and retire.” He stands and pads into the showers. Georgi knows better than to follow him in there.

When he exits the locker room, clean and changed back into his street clothes, most of the others are still hanging around the rink. He pauses to watch Yuuri on the ice. Victor is in the middle of the rink with him, yelling encouragement as Yuuri sets up and jumps - a perfect quad salchow.

Yuri wishes he had something to throw at him. He taught the piggy that damn jump, and today it landed _him_ on his ass so many times he lost count. Seeing the Japanese pig land it makes his blood heat.

He spins away and walks out with quick strides, eager for the warm spring weather to melt the ice from his bones. At the door, he pauses to gather himself. There’s almost always a small gaggle of “Yuri’s Angels” outside the rink in the evenings, waiting for the chance to nab photos and signatures from him as he tries to get home. It’s the last thing he wants to deal with after this humiliation.

He pushes outside, wincing in expectation of the squeals, but he’s greeted by nothing but the sound of car horns and pedestrian conversations. He looks over where the fans usually gather and sees a few women holding magazines and signs staring back at him. Most of the magazines feature a cover shot of Victor in profile. He recognizes it as a recent interview Victor and Yuuri did together regarding plans for the next season. 

There’s not a cat ear to be seen.

“Um,” one of the girls clears her throat, then steps forward cautiously. She extends her arm toward him, dangling a pale blue envelope from her pinched grip like it might be full of anthrax. “One of those cat girls told me to give you this.”

He puts his hands out, and she drops it into his open palms, then steps back into the crowd. “Thanks,” he says dumbly. He can hear some of the girls at the back of the pack start whispering at that, so he turns, hiding his pinking cheeks behind a curtain of hair. He grips the envelope tightly as he trudges back toward Lilia’s apartment.

A block from the rink, he stops, dropping his duffel between his feet as he leans in the shade of a brick building. The envelope isn’t sealed; the flap is just folded in. He untucks it and then rips the envelope in half, then catches the card when it slips out. 

The front of the card has a flexed bicep on it, covered in tattoos. The text on the arm reads, “ _You Can Do This!_ ”

On the inside, there’s no printed message, but several small handwritten notes in a variety of styles. Many just say _davai_. He spots one _ganba_ thrown in, a couple messages asking him to take care of himself, and a few more _I love you_ s. 

His chest hurts a little. It’s weird getting messages like this. Its _always_ a little weird to him, getting messages from fans, and especially ones that throw around the word “love” like it’s candy at a parade. But it is kind of nice to be reminded that there are people out there who believe in him, and who think he can pull through this despite the recent disappointments.

He should call his grandpa.

He walks the rest of the way home more slowly, his phone wedged against his ear.

-

He’s stretched out on the loveseat, Potya curled up on his stomach, flipping channels. Game show, game show, football, soap opera - why is daytime television so terrible? He tries not to twist and fidget even though his calves are dangling painfully over the arm of the sofa, not wanting to dislodge his precious Potya. He checks his phone for the fifth time in probably an hour. Pathetic. Otabek is actually enjoying his off-season with his family. He’d _warned_ Yuri his phone might not be on much.

There’s a tapping at the door, and Potya pricks her ears and leaps off his stomach, dashing to the bedroom to hide. Yuri swings his feet down to the carpet with a low groan. Whatever package is getting delivered better be damn good for scaring his cat.

He opens the door to find Georgi standing in the hall. It’s jarring to be on even footing with the older skaters unexpectedly, finding himself looking straight into their eyes instead of up at their chins. “Hi, little Yuri,” he says, sounding unusually chipper. “It’s a nice day out. I thought you might like to get some ice cream with me.”

Yuri shuts the door on him. 

The tapping starts again. “Yuri!” Georgi had better not disturb Lilia’s neighbors, or the gossipy old hags will never let him live it down. “Yakov said it was okay. He also said I could drag you out if I had to.”

“Fine,” Yuri grouses, flinging the door open to let him inside. “But you need to wait out here while I get dressed.”

Georgi nods, loitering in the living area as Yuri stalks back to his room to change out of his rest day sweatpants.

“I haven’t been in here since Yakov moved out,” Georgi says, just loud enough to carry into the next room. Yuri peers out the door to see him running his hand over a display case, examining Lilia’s pristine trophies and photographs. “There used to be a wedding portrait here,” he says.

Yuri pulls his tiger hoodie over his head. The ends of the sleeves stop a few centimeters short of his wrist bones. He pushes the sleeves up to his elbows defiantly. “Come on,” he snaps, grabbing his backpack. “Stop getting your fingerprints all over Lilia’s things.”

They walk from the apartment to an ice cream parlor Georgi has in mind. It’s a nice spring day, though the air is still a bit too nippy for Yuri’s bare forearms to be comfortable, especially as they approach the shore of the Neva. 

The little shop is nice enough, run by a single employee dishing out ten different flavors. It’s not a popular day for ice cream, so there are no screaming children to wade through. Georgi offers to pay, so Yuri orders a triple scoop of chocolate, caramel, and cinnamon in a fresh waffle cone. Georgi settles on a small bowl of strawberry, watching with a glint of envy in his eyes as Yuri immediately takes a bite right out of the top of his tower of flavors.

As soon as they get outside, Georgi makes a beeline for a wooden bench at the edge of the water. He’s tempted to just leave, go back to the apartment, and share his bounty with Potya, but Lilia has been very insistent recently that he learn some manners. She even went so far as to threaten him with finishing school.

He drops down onto the bench next to Georgi, kitten licking around the edges of his cone to prevent drips. Georgi sighs deeply. Yuri ignores him and takes another bite from the middle scoop. He sighs again, really drawing it out this time.

“What?” Yuri snaps, glaring at him from the corner of his eye. “What? What is your problem? Why can we not just sit here and eat?”

“We can! We can,” Georgi says. He goes quiet for a blissful moment in which Yuri starts to think that _perhaps_ they will actually do that. Then he sighs again. “It’s just that Anya and I used to come over here on dates sometimes. She loved to sit and watch the sea birds.”

Yuri frowns at him and points over the water, where the grey and white gulls are hovering, nipping at each other and screeching for food. “Those trash birds? Are you serious?” He breaks the tip off his waffle cone and tosses it onto the bricks. Three birds descend on it immediately, screaming and pecking at each other to get the morsel as he watches.

“That explains a lot about her,” Yuri says, once one of the birds has finally swallowed the crumb. Now the gulls are just sitting there, staring at him with their beady little black eyes. Greedy bastards. “Come on,” he stands up. “Let’s move somewhere else. The atmosphere here sucks.”

They wander up the wide paths, meandering back in the general direction of the apartment as they both eat quietly. It’s still too cool out for any but the most daring plants to start blooming, but there are buds on some of the trees, and the green shoot of a tulip pokes out of the ground here or there in the garden beds. Saint Petersburg is greener than Moscow, even in April. 

“This is your first off season staying here, isn’t it?” Georgi breaks the silence. He dumps his empty cardboard bowl into a nearby trash can. Yuri may have bitten off more than he can handle with his ice cream. “I thought you usually went back to Moscow to see your grandpa.”

“Yeah,” Yuri says quietly, watching as a line of chocolate drips slowly onto the back of his hand. Grandpa tried to muffle it on the phone, but the scratch and catch in his voice gave him away. Yuri can tell his cough is back, persistent and wet and worrying. “He doesn’t want me there right now,” he says, and he can hear the venom creeping into his own voice.

His ice cream cone cracks in his grip, spilling sticky sweetness all over his fist. It’s disgusting. He throws the rest of it into the river and takes the napkins Georgi passes him to wipe the mess off his hand.

“I’ll give you my number,” Georgi says. “You can call me anytime you need to get out of the house, if you get homesick, or if you just need to talk. I know it can’t be easy for you.”

“What do you know?” Yuri scoffs. Georgi opens his mouth to respond, but Yuri thrusts the dirty napkins against his chest. They’re not far from Lilia’s. Potya is waiting for him. They had a date with bad television. “Thanks for the ice cream,” his says, words sweet but tone cutting. He leaves before the other skater can say anything else.

Once he starts walking away, he doesn’t stop moving until his shins collide with the side of his bed. He collapses forward, planting his face in the pillows. Potya slinks out from under the bed with an inquisitive noise and hops up, kneading his lower back with the tiny knives in her toes.

Maybe Lilia is right. Maybe he needs finishing. He flops onto his back and pulls the cat up onto his chest. “ _The beautiful, ever-evolving monster_ ,” he whispers to her. “That’s me, right Potya?” The cat circles his chest twice and lays down, purring.

-

The next day’s practice is a bit better than they have been. He falls on the quad salchow again, but he lands the triple axel smoothly on every attempt. It might help that he sees Victor pop a jump on his way into the locker rooms.

But even after a good day he can’t shake the low, sick feeling that’s haunted his guts for the last few weeks. The feeling ebbs at times, passes out of his mind for minutes at a time, but then it rushes back, unpredictable and dangerous.

He shoulders his duffel and heads out for the evening, his sights set on take-out and bed. He can keep his head down and avoid the attention of the other skaters, but he can’t avoid the women waiting outside.

It’s only a small cluster of maybe a dozen, but half of them are wearing those horrifying cat ear headbands. He raises his head, trying to look haughty and unapproachable as he passes through them. If he can channel a fraction of Lilia’s prima airs, he should be able to intimidate them to leaving him alone. In that, at least, his new height is helpful.

The group shuffles around quietly, and then one mousy blonde gets shoved to the front, almost colliding with his side. Without thinking, he catches her by the shoulder before she can fall on him. She squeaks, brown eyes wide and frightened, magnified by her thick glasses. 

“What?” he asks, exasperated. Victor’s always on his ass to be nicer to his fans, but all he wants is to go home, put on his sweats, and listen to the last mix Otabek sent him at maximum volume. “What do you want?”

The girl drops her gaze but holds up a brown paper bag to his face wordlessly. The base of the bag is polkadotted dark with grease, and there’s a distinctive, familiar aroma. He inhales deeply, then blinks in confusion. “For me?” The girl nods. He takes the paper bag from her, and she flees back into the crowd. 

He looks over the group. When they’re quiet like this, they’re not so bad. “Thanks,” he says. The noise they make is somewhere in the dog whistle range, and he hurries to get away before they can ruin it.

He puts a little distance between himself and the group, then looks back to be sure none of them are following. There are the usual light crowds of pedestrians in suits and school uniforms, but no sign of any cat ears on the street. He pauses on the corner to unroll the top of the bag and pulls out one of the pirozhkis, holding it under his nose to inhale the familiar fragrance again. 

It’s weekend visits and small gifts when his grandmother was still alive. It’s Sunday mornings in his grandpa’s kitchen after church, huddling in front of the oven for the extra warmth. It’s his welcome home breakfast in the early spring after a long season away, his newest medal looped over his grandfather’s neck. 

He takes a bite and makes a surprised noise as the flavors of meat, cabbage, and potato explode on his tongue. They’re not as good as grandpa’s, of course. The bottom is a little crispier than he’s used to. But they’re good. He finishes the first one on his walk back to the apartment and licks his fingers clean before wiping his hands on his leggings.

Back in the apartment, he showers and gets changed into his sweatpants, checking that Potya has food in her bowl before flopping on the couch. He turns on the TV and pulls the paper bag onto his lap. Half a dozen pirozhkis definitely don’t fit into his meal plan, even in the off-season, but who’s going to stop him? As long as he doesn’t blow up like Katsudon, he can afford the extra calories. He’s a growing boy, after all.

He’s shoving the third bun into his mouth and dusting the crumbs from his chest when the door pops open and Lilia walks in. She looks down her nose at him, and he freezes, feeling like a toddler caught climbing the cabinets to get a cookie. He wasn’t expecting her home. She’s been out a lot recently, and he has his suspicions, but their relationship at home operates primarily on mutual silence about a lot of things.

She pulls a slip of paper from her pocket, holding it out to him, and he wipes the grease from his fingers onto his chest before taking it. It’s a train ticket for Moscow, leaving tomorrow afternoon. It’s a good thing he finished chewing, because his jaw drops. Lilia would never forgive him showing her half-chewed food. “What-?”

“Yakov called your grandfather already,” Lilia interrupts, raising an eyebrow at his entire existence. “He’s doing better, but he could use a hand around the house. He knows to expect you.”

Yuri stands up, unsure what to do or what to say. Lilia’s posture relaxes slightly as she opens her arms, and he rushes in to hug her tightly. It’s awkward, and made more awkward by the way he’s shot up recently, no longer able to tuck his head beneath her chin. She squeezes him back briefly, and they break apart.

“Go on,” she tells him, voice cracking ever so slightly as she shoos him toward his bedroom. “Pack your bags. Hopefully you can be more focused in classes when you get back.”

\- 

The time away turns out to be much-needed, but also exhausting in its own way. He gets a couple days to relax and look after Grandpa’s health, making sure the apartment is well stocked with groceries and that upcoming doctor’s appointments are clearly marked on the kitchen counter. After that, he’s back into daily off-ice training, running through the streets in Moscow, attending a nearby yoga class, and on top of that catching up with distant cousins and old school friends who still live nearby. It reminds him of all the reasons he loves Moscow and all the reasons he had to leave.

The week flies by, and then he’s on a late evening train back to Saint Petersburg. He spends most of the ride texting, catching up with Otabek and getting rink gossip from Mila, and then has to drag himself through the darkened city streets back to the apartment, dragging his suitcase down bumpy cobblestone paths. 

Lilia isn’t home, as expected, but she left a lamp on for him. He gives Potya a scritch, gets undressed, and collapses onto his bed. He’s asleep in minutes.

He wakes up feeling clear-headed, the growing feeling of unease and sadness that’s sat in his stomach since Worlds vanished into the ether. Then he picks up his phone and realizes the well-rested feeling is in part because he forgot to set his alarm. His scheduled ice time starts in ten minutes.

He scrambles to get up and dressed as quickly as he can, shoves his things into a backpack instead of his usual duffel, dumps some food into Potya’s bowl, and runs all the way to the rink. 

Outside, a small group of fans is still gathered around, hoping to spot their favorite skaters on the way in for training. Among them, sticking out like a cat among pigeons, is Georgi, gesturing expansively with his hands as he talks with three girls in cat ears.

How typical. Yuri feels a spark of protectiveness in his heart, usually reserved for his family and friends. With the Angels on their best behavior recently, he’s grown almost _fond_ of them. They are, maybe, not the worst. 

He knew Georgi was obsessive about women, but he never thought he’d stoop to going after fan girls outside the rink just to land a date. 

“Hey, back off, old man,” he yells, jogging toward the group. “They’re too young for you.”

Georgi’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “We were just talking about movies,” one of the girls says, smiling. “He’s fine.”

“Sure,” Yuri snorts, hands on his hips. “That’s what he wants you to think. Don’t you have training to do?” Georgi’s shoulders slump slightly and he nods, and Yuri tails him in through the doors to the rink, just to be sure.

It’s not a bad practice for Yuri, considering he’s been out of town for a week, but the same cannot be said for Georgi. Apparently he had twisted his ankle in off-ice training around the time Yuri left for Moscow, and he’s still easing back into proper ice time. The man is tripping over his own feet on _doubles_. Yuri skates over the the boards where Mila is leaning to watch. He grabs his water bottle, squirting some into his mouth, and ties his hair back into a quick tail. If he doesn’t want even more comparisons to Victor, he’ll need to cut it soon.

“This is pathetic,” he grumbles, thumping his water bottle against the boards. “His falls are even making _me_ feel discouraged. Why doesn’t he just give up and retire already?”

“Hush, kitty,” Mila says, flicking him in the forehead. “Don’t speak ill of your betters.”

“ _Betters_?” Yuri snorts. “Yeah, right.” He spins around, skating around Georgi and executing a flawless triple axel right in his space. Yakov yells at him for jumping so close to the other skater, but it was worth it for the look of shock on Georgi’s face.

The rest of his ice time passes with little to remark on. After the rest time he got in Moscow, his body seems to have settled some, and a couple of the quads are cooperating with him already. He might not have the worst season ever ahead of him.

He leaves the others in the rink, going to the locker room to shower. Afterward, he pulls on his jeans and the new tiger sweatshirt. He’s physically worn out from the practice after a week off, and his thighs are complaining nicely, but he still has mental energy to burn. He’s considering his options for getting out of the house this evening as he heads out the double doors.

He blinks in surprise as he steps outside. There are a dozen girls gathered in the usual spot, but tonight _all_ of them seem to be waiting for him. Their attention is lasered on him the moment he walks through the door. A tiny teenage girl with brown hair steps toward him. She’s starting at her feet, but holding out a stuffed animal, offering it to him with both arms extended. It’s a fluffy, realistic-looking white kitty with black points. It’s the spitting image of his Potya.

He steps forward and takes the cat, but something about the girl strikes a chime in his brain. “Oh!” She looks up, startled, and meets his eyes. He plucks at the embroidered tiger on his shoulder. “You gave me this sweatshirt too, didn’t you? At the airport?”

The other girls are whispering furiously amongst themselves, but the teenager just nods, blushing. “Thank you,” he says, feeling a bit smug. He’s certainly better than Victor in the memory department. “For both things. I wear this shirt a lot.”

“Did you, um,” her voice is quiet and a little raspy. He has to concentrate to hear her over the sounds of traffic and the cries of the sea birds. “Did you get the pirozhkis too? My grandma made them, but I got sick and couldn’t come that day.”

“Yeah, thank you.” He feels his cheeks heat, and now he’s the one looking at the ground. “They’re my favorite food, actually.”

“I know.” He looks up sharply at her, and she curls a strand of hair around her finger, looking back at the other girls in the group with a cracked giggle. “I guess that sounds a little creepy, huh? I’m not stalking you or anything. Georgi told us.”

“Georgi?” He frowns and tucks the stuffed cat under his arm, out of the way. “Why are you guys talking to Georgi?”

“Oh, we talk to him all the time,” one of the other girls says, bouncing slightly on her toes. “He doesn’t really have many fans of his own, you know, but he’s _really nice_ to everyone else’s.”

“Yeah,” an older woman, interrupting. “He used to bring us coffees sometimes when its cold out, and hot water. Lately, he’s been telling us about stuff you like, or letting us know when you have a bad day.”

“I hope we’ve been able to cheer you up,” the teen says. “You were great at Worlds. We can’t wait to see what you do next season.”

“Thank you,” he says again. He feels like a robot, repeating the same phrase, but his circuits are still a little overwhelmed. “Excuse me. I… forgot something inside.”

He jogs back into the rink and stops short, scanning the ice. There’s no sign of Georgi’s distinctive quiff, just Katsudon and Victor leaned on the boards, watching the Zamboni with rapt attention. He drops his bag and goes to check the locker room. 

Georgi is sitting on a bench, bent over to lace up his tennis shoes. His shoulders are slumped and his head is bowed. He finishes his shoe and buries his face in his hands.

“Hey you,” Yuuri snaps. The other man picks his head up, turning back to look at him with surprise and a touch of apprehension in his eyes. Yuri gestures at him with the hand still holding the stuffed Potya. “Get your stuff. We’re going to dinner.”

Georgi frowns, staring at him like he just asked him to do his routine in speed skates. “Now?”

“Yes, now.” Georgi doesn’t move, and Yuri huffs at him. “Hurry up. If we finish early enough, we can go see that movie you were talking about earlier too.” Georgi perks up finally at that, grabbing his backpack from the floor and trotting over like an eager puppy.

“You’re really going to take me to see _The Princess in Love Again_?” Georgi grins.

“What?” Yuri squawks, nearly dropping his toy. “No!”

“That’s okay,” the older man chuckles, taking the cat from his hand and stroking it like an evil genius in a film. “I made it up anyway. We can see _Pacific Rim_.”

“Yes,” Yuri says, punching the air. “Hell yes, giant robots.”

“Oh wait, I meant _The Shape of Water_.”

Yuri groans. It’s going to be a long walk to the theater.


End file.
